Lachrymose
by neotantrika
Summary: Calling on the arts of herbal remedy salesman Alfredo Aldarisio, Chuck asks for something that will make her fall out of love with the Pie-Maker, and vice versa. What he comes up with, however, is a better solution all around.


She didn't hear him come in. When the girl called Chuck turned from taking a customer's order for Southern Pecan Caramel Pie and saw Alfredo Aldarisio sitting in Booth Number Four, she nearly dropped her coffee carafe.

"Hi!" she said, hurrying over with a menu. "I haven't seen you in here for ages!"

"What happened to the espresso machine?"

Chuck glanced over her shoulder at the gleaming machine against the wall. "It quit working the same time our other waitress quit working. It just couldn't live without her."

"Olive is gone?" His eyes were wide with surprise.

Chuck nodded. "She opened up a restaurant devoted to macaroni and cheese."

"Damn," he said softly.

Something in his tone cut through Chuck's fog of distraction. "Something wrong?"

Alfredo looked down at his hands. "I guess not," he said morosely.

Chuck slid into the booth across from Alfredo.

"You seem a little depressed," she said.

He shrugged, lacing his fingers together. "I was looking for Olive. I was hoping..."

Chuck cocked her head to one side. "Looks like you could use a dose of your own medicine."

He winced, glancing around. "Remedies! Not medicine. Medicines are regulated by the FDA."

Chuck smiled impishly. "Remedies, then. I have to tell you, those homeopathic mood enhancers you sold me were great!"

Alfredo perked up a little. "Really?"

"Yes! I baked them into the crust of some pies for my repressed yet extroverted aunts, and they threw off the chains of their reclusion and reclaimed their destinies!" Chuck's eyes danced with the happy recollection.

"That's wonderful to hear," Alfredo said. "So I guess you don't need any more mood enhancers?"

Chuck sighed. "Not for them. Possibly for me."

Alfredo eyed her. "Depressed?"

"A little." Chuck looked down at the table. "Maybe a lot."

"I have a fresh batch of mood enhancers--" He reached for the wooden box sitting on the booth beside him.

Chuck shook her head. "I don't think they'd work. Do you have anything like an anti-love potion?"

"An anti-love potion? You want to make someone fall out of love? That's unethical."

"Not if it's for yourself," Chuck said, looking unhappy. "Haven't you ever wanted to stop loving a person, stop wanting and needing what you can never have?"

"Boy, do I understand that!" Alfredo closed his eyes. "Especially now. Where is this restaurant of hers?"

"I'll tell you," Chuck said. "If you'll help me fall out of love with someone."

Alfredo frowned. "No one has ever asked for something like that before. It's not something I carry in stock."

"You have to help me," Chuck said, leaning across the table. Alfredo leaned back a little. "I can't be with him and I can't stand to be away from him and there's no middle ground. I want to be able to leave him without breaking my heart in two. Or his."

Alfredo shook his head. "That doesn't make any sense to me."

She crossed her elbows on the table top. "Let's just say, hypothetically speaking and not at all related to any persons who might actually be real, that you had two people who loved each other and could never touch."

"You mean like me and Olive?"

Chuck shook her head. "No. I mean if one person touches the other, she dies. Actually, literally dead-dead dies."

Alfredo looked confused. "The toucher or the touchee?"

"The touchee. Think of it as the Touch of Death. If he--I mean, if someone with the Touch of Death were to touch a person, that person would die."

Alfredo frowned. "Sounds made up to me. What's your point?"

"Is there a mood enhancer that can make the touchee not care? Is there something in that velvet lined box of yours that can make someone, the touchee for example, fall out of love?"

"Oh," Alfredo said, slow comprehension dawning. "A special."

"A special?"

"I don't just sell these remedies. I make them. And I can make up a special order, if someone needs it. Your problem sounds very ... special."

Chuck's mouth turned up in a bitter smile. "Very special. Unique, even. Can you help me?"

Alfredo rubbed his nose. "Maybe. Let me think. And while I'm thinking, I'll have some of the special of the day."

"Cherry Berry Rhubarb coming up," Chuck said.

As she walked away, Alfredo was staring off into space, muttering. "Where the hell can I get my hands on some

laserpicium?"

***

The man who had been the boy called Ned rolled another pie crust out and looked up across the table. "Ready for the filling," he said. Chuck picked up the white stoneware crockery bowl in front of her.

"Strawberry, right?"

He took it from her carefully, making sure her fingers were nowhere near his. "Fruit of love," he said. "Shaped like the human heart."

"Yes," she said, looking at the table as if she had never seen it before.

Ever sensitive to her moods, he put down the bowl and leaned forward. He may or may not have been conscious of the effect that move had on Chuck, may or may not have realized that it emphasized the lean muscle in his arms, the planes of his pectorals. He would have denied it, in any case. "What's wrong?"

"Wrong?"

"Chuck."

She looked up at him, her eyes full of trouble and tears. "What if things changed?"

"Changed?"

"Changed. Were different. Between us."

He looked alarmed. "I don't want things to be different between us. Different is bad. Different could mean...dead."

"Did you love me when I was dead? Or had you forgotten me until you brought me back?"

Ned blinked. He really hadn't thought about this. "I ... really hadn't thought about it."

Slowly, she folded her apron in her hands and then unfolded it again. Her eyes didn't leave his face. "I ... I might go away. I think it would be best."

Ned's breath caught in his throat in sheer panic. "No," he said at once. His hands reached across the table to her, instinct overriding caution. "No, Chuck, no!" Realizing what he'd done, he snatched his hands back as if he'd taken a hot pie out of the oven without a mitt.

"You see? I ... we can't continue to live like this," she said. "Touching through glass and plastic, that's not touching. Maybe you can live like that. You like to live like that. You've always lived like that. You've always lived behind glass, even before..." She broke off and looked away, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

"I don't like glass," he said quickly. "Glass is sharp and cold and brittle. The only reason I live with it is because it keeps the world safe from me."

"I don't want to be safe from you!"

"Chuck--"

But she had already run out of the kitchen, hands to her cheeks.

* * *

He found her in a favorite refuge: the rooftop bee farm. She stood in the dying light of a summer day, with soft bees humming happily around her. They zipped to and fro, circled her hair like a living halo, lighted briefly on her arms in greeting before humming off to their cone-shaped skeps. The warm smell of honey, too sweet to be real, infused the lazy evening air. She stood over a rosemary bush, watching the insects crawl over the needle-shaped leaves, the sky-blue flowers.

She heard him, but didn't turn around. "They like blue flowers best," she said.

He leaned against the frame of the door, crossing his arms over his chest. The gesture left flour prints all over his dark T-shirt. "So do I."

She sighed, turned. "It's not like I want to leave you," she said. "But do you really think we can go on like this forever? When will the law of averages catch up with us? One day you'll zig and I'll zag, and I'll be dead again and you'll feel guilty for the rest of your life. I don't want to die again, and I don't want you to be guilty, and I don't want--"

"I loved you when you were dead," he said quietly.

"What?"

"You asked me. If I had forgotten you until I brought you back. The answer is no. I went to that funeral home because I remembered you. Because I couldn't forget you."

"I thought I'd forgotten you," she said. "But now I know I didn't. I realized it when you woke me up, and I heard your voice. I realized I'd been hearing it all my life. Which is strange, since the last time I'd seen you, your voice hadn't even changed."

His crooked smile looked sad and wise and lonely. "Because I talked to you, in dreams. Maybe you were hearing them."

"You can't hear other people's dreams!"

"And the dead stay dead forever."

"Next time, Ned, I will."

His eyes stayed on hers, but his face changed, subtly. Fear washed across it, and then anger, and then a blank

resignation. "I know." His voice was a hoarse whisper. "I've always known you'd go." He swallowed, the big Adam's apple bobbing. "When?"

"Soon," she said, her voice just as hoarse as his.

He nodded, his eyes big, his face white. "At least I kissed you once." Then he turned and walked back inside, his tread firm and slow, like a man ascending a gallows.

Her hands shook a little as she gathered rosemary stems. "Rosemary, that's for remembrance," she whispered.

* * *

She had forgotten about the herbal remedy salesman until he showed up two days later. Ned was away, searching the fruit suppliers' bins for discarded produce, and the noon rush was over. Other than the regulars, there was no one to serve. Chuck was sitting at the bar with a pencil and pad of paper, listing destinations, when a leather case was set on the counter before her. She looked up. "Oh, hi again."

Alfredo looked a little flushed, but otherwise he seemed the same as ever. "Sorry it took so long," he said.

Chuck blinked, remembering. "Oh, yes. The anti-aphrodisiac."

Alfredo's smile wobbled a little. "Well, yes and no. Not ... not exactly what you asked for. Can I have a slice of pie?"

"Sure. Today's special is Cinnamon Apple."

"Whatever. Look, this may sound a little weird. No, actually it will sound a lot weird." He stopped and glanced around as she slid the plate with the pie across the counter to him. "Can you cry? Just a little bit? Right now?"

"Cry? As in, weep actual tears?"

He nodded. "Yes. The ability to weep on cue, it may make all the difference to you."

Chuck frowned and smoothed her hands down her apron. "That sounds ... weird."

"I said it would. That doesn't make it easier, I know." He forked pie into his mouth, chewing neatly.

Automatically, Chuck poured him some coffee."Why do you want me to cry?"

Alfredo reached into his case and brought forth one of his stoppered vials. It was empty. "Could you cry into this, do you think?"

Chuck took it into her hand. It was small and cool. She turned it around in her hand. "Why? Is this some kind of weird ... sex thing?"

Alfredo looked startled. "Sex thing? No, no, not at all. No, it's ... didn't you ask me for a special?"

Chuck looked at it. "I don't understand."

Alfredo finished his pie and licked the fork. "This is really good. Probably the best pie I've ever eaten. Look, it's very simple. My special is a proprietary concoction of my own formulation, but it needs an ingredient from you to lock it to you, specifically. A bodily fluid is best, and saliva is too frequently contaminated by food. Tears are ideal. If you can capture some tears in that vial, I can lock the formula and it will work. It will only work for you, however. It would not work for anyone else."

"It just seems...wrong to base a chemical formula on tears," Chuck said. "If this does what I want, it should make me happy. Wouldn't you want to capture laughter instead?"

Alfredo looked at her. "Capture laughter? And how would I do that? With a balloon? Do you want this or not?"

Chuck looked at the vial, then around at the Pie Hole. She would be gone this time next week. She would never see Ned again. She would not have to worry about a chance touch that would kill her. She thought about how many times she wanted to kiss Ned, wanted to touch him wanted to feel his skin against hers and his warmth and to find out if his hair really felt as silky as it looked, and then a tear was rolling down her cheek.

"Oh, excellent," Alfredo said. He took the vial out of her hand and uncorked it, then pressed the rim of the opening against her cheek. Chuck felt embarrassed but stood still, hoping the other customers weren't staring at her. She blinked, and another tear rolled down her cheek. Then Alfredo was capping the bottle and smiling. "Perfect," he said. "Thank you. I'll be back tomorrow with the preparation. And, uh." He suddenly stopped and swallowed nervously. "You'll have Olive's address for me?"

"Yes," Chuck whispered.

Alfredo put a five dollar bill on the counter, put his hat on his head with a wink, and walked out the door. The bell clanged behind him.

* * *

She didn't have room enough for all her books, so she was sorting through the collection in the living room, deciding which ones to take and which to leave. Digby, sensing a coming change, or maybe just sensitive to her mood, sat leaning into her as she sat cross-legged on the floor. The front door opened, and Digby's tail told Chuck that Ned was home.

His presence in the room was like a storm front, a brooding, oppressive silence. He had said little to her for the past two days, and nothing at night. He had said nothing as her closet emptied and her suitcase filled. He stood for a few minutes; she didn't turn or greet him. He went into the kitchen and she heard him moving around, getting plates and cutlery out.

Digby whined and thumped his tail, then nosed her. She put down the book she'd been holding and slowly got to her feet.

She walked to the door of the kitchen and stood in it, watching him.

He wore his usual black T-shirt and jeans, and there was flour around his knees below where his apron would stop. He had a bruise on one elbow where he'd bumped into a garbage bin yesterday, and she concentrated on it so she would not see his face.

When he turned to her, he held a pie in his hands.

"I made you a going-away pie," he said in his low, husky voice.

"What's a going-away pie?" she asked. Because it was easier than asking about anything else.

"Bittersweet," he said, with a dry laugh. There were tears in the laugh. "Some chocolate, because you love it.

Strawberries, for love. Honey, for sweetness. And marshmallows, because it sounded good."

She looked up then, and there were tears in his eyes. Never before had Chuck so desperately wanted to throw herself into those arms, kiss those tears away. She trembled with the effort of holding back. She looked down, and his hands were shaking, holding the pie. "Thank you," she whispered. How many more tears must she shed over this man? How many more hours of agony before she was over him, or at least gone, where the sight of him would no longer torment her.

He put the pie on the table. "I hope you like it. I ... I can't eat it. I'm not hungry."

And even as she was reminding herself she would be gone day after tomorrow, she was memorizing everything about his face: the dark eyebrows, the curl of hair that always fell across his brow, the chin, the faint stubble along his jawline, but most of all his eyes, so expressive. Everything other men showed in their faces showed only in Ned's eyes; he had schooled the rest of him to rigid blankness, but he could not control the longing, the love, the sadness looking out of his eyes now.

"I can't believe you're leaving," he said, his voice low. "I ... I keep trying to come up with a reason for you to stay. I

can't. You're right, it's only a matter of time before I kill you accidentally. And if that happened, I would die within the hour, I know it. So it's best for both of us, I know. But I can't believe there will be a time when you're not in my life. I thought this would be enough, just having one another like this, being together--"

"But we can't be together, not really," she said. "And that's what's killing us. It will kill what we have."

He looked at her, pleading. "Is touching so much? Is it worth throwing away everything else--conversation, laughing, watching snow together, reading to one another, is all of that worth nothing?"

She looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "It's...not nothing. But it's not enough. Call me weak, but I have to have--" Her voice caught in her throat, thick with unshed tears. "I have to touch you, Ned! I have to! I want to feel you against me so bad I know some night I'll go walking in my sleep or something and--" She jammed her fist in her mouth to shut herself up.

He was silent a long time. He put his hands behind his back, a signal that he was fighting his own urge to touch. "I know," he said quietly. "If I could have only one hour..." He didn't finish. He didn't need to.

* * *

Chuck told herself that Alfredo would not come back. She told herself not to get any hopes up. She told herself that she was just distracting herself from her impending separation by daydreaming. But for whatever reason, she spent the next day in the pie shop, looking up every time the door opened, feeling disappointed every time it wasn't him. Behind her, Ned silently made pie after pie after pie, pouring all his pent up emotions into succulent, luscious sweet desserts. It was one of the busiest days they'd ever had, and Chuck was run off her feet.

Finally, the last customer left and she was wiping the counter when the bell over the door jangled and there he was.

"We're closed!" Ned called from the stockroom.

"I'll take care of it," she said. She came around the counter.

It was raining outside; water dripped off Alfredo onto the linoleum. His soggy hat drooped, his shoes squelched, but he was smiling from ear to ear. "I found her."

"Oh. Yes, Olive. How is she?"

"She makes wonderful macaroni and cheese!" He beamed, his round face lighting up as if a votive candle to his beloved burned behind his skull. "We're going on a holiday soon."

"I'm glad for you," Chuck said, her heart aching. She made herself smile. "So you won't be back for awhile."

"No, " he said, putting down his sample case. "But I didn't forget you. Here's your special." He reached into his inside coat pocket and drew out a large vial. The liquid inside burned a red-purple; it looked as thick as molasses as he held it out to her. "A thimbleful a day, every day. Don't forget."

Chuck reached slowly for the vial. It felt heavy, as if filled with mercury. Alive, almost. "This ... this will make me fall out of love?"

Alfredo picked up his sample case. "Oh, no. That's impossible. Nobody could make that formulation."

"Then what does it do?"

"Just what you asked for. It neutralizes that Touch of Death thing."

"What?" Surely she'd heard that wrong.

"I'll be back in a month or so with the formula. I'll need more of your tears." Suddenly he brightened, and his smile was wide.

"But how do you know it will work? Have you tested it?"

"Now how could I test it? Don't worry. My specials always work," Alfredo said. He nodded to her, rain spilling off his hat brim. "See you around."

Her jaw dropped open. "It ... what? Wait!"

The door banged behind him.

"All locked up?" Ned said behind her.

Without thinking, Chuck thrust the vial into the pocket of her apron before she turned around. "Yes. Just finishing up."

Ned looked at the floor. "What happened?"

"Just a little rain," she said. "I'll get the mop."

He nodded, unwinding the apron strings. His hands, so large and so agile, handled the delicate strings with surety and firmness. The apron came off, and there he was, tall and lanky and dressed in black, a dusting of flour over his strong forearms, the black T-shirt molded to his form. "What?"

She felt her cheeks go hot. Caught looking. "Nothing," she said.

His look was sad; it told her he guessed her thoughts, and knew he had similar thoughts, and it would always be this way between them as long as they lived together.

"Chuck..." he said.

She smiled, and knew the smile was wobbly. "I know. I'll ... I'll see you soon."

Without a word, he turned and left through the back door.

Left alone, Chuck locked the front door and closed the blinds. She turned out the sign and shut off the interior lights. She finished in the kitchen, surrounded by the gleam of polished steel counter tops, the hum of the refrigerator, the smell of hot fruit and sugar. She ran a hand along the counter, thought of his hand lying on it, shaping pie crust, his touch sure and light.

And deadly.

Slowly she reached into the pocket of her apron and drew out the vial. In the dim light, it almost glowed purple. She had no idea of the ingredients. What if Alfredo was wrong? What if it reacted badly to her alive-again chemistry? What if it killed her?

Well, even that would be better than this half-life, she thought. Carefully, she uncorked the vial. A smell blended of ripe berries, honey, and salt rose from it. She closed her eyes, inhaling. She raised it to her lips and let it fall across her tongue. Sourness of thwarted love, and the sweetness of reconciliation; the dusty smell of memory, a hint of melancholy, and the bitterness of regret. Under all, the mellow warmth of skin, the spice of sex, the taste of shared laughter. She swallowed.

She could feel it all the way down, a sort of spicy green feeling that flowed outward. She felt a tingle begin in her center,

then that kind of lightweight feeling she got in a fast elevator. Laughter bubbled up, and her scalp prickled in a

goosebumpy way. Most of all, there was a white tide rising in her of ... solidity. Soundness. Vitality.

She looked at the vial. Was that only a thimbleful? Should she have more? But what if more was too much? She wished there was some way to test it.

There was only one way to test it.

* * *

Chuck came in through the door to their apartment, and instantly knew Ned was in the living room. It wasn't that he was making noise, or that she smelled pies. It was as if she'd suddenly grown exquisitely sensitive antennae, that picked up only him. She closed the door quietly behind her. Her heart beat fast, her breath came fast. It was now or never. Should she tell him? Would he believe her? Instantly, she decided against it. It would not matter how much she assured him, would not matter how confident she felt, he could never agree to touch her.

But she knew, deep in her tissues, that the special had renewed her, as spring revives dead winter. Her fingertips tingled. She wanted to touch him. She must.

Shrugging out of her coat, she dropped it softly to the floor. She moved to the doorway and stood watching.

He knelt in front of the bookcases that flanked the fireplace, sorting through the last of their shared library. There were two piles, his and hers. She saw that the pile of her books was higher. Digby was stretched on the floor, just out of his master's reach. The dog looked up as she entered, and thumped his tail. Ned looked up.

There were tears on his cheeks.

"Oh, Ned," she said. "Oh, Ned."

She walked over carefully and knelt facing him. His body stiffened, as it always did, wary of any hasty--any

dangerous--move. He cleared his throat. "I hope you really weren't going to leave all of Sir Walter Scott behind."

She shook her head, too full of things she could not say. Now or never, she thought. If this failed, this would be her last sight of Ned, on his knees, weeping because he was losing her. As good as anything for a goodbye, she thought. Now or never.

"I love you, Ned," she said softly.

He smiled a little crookedly, and opened his mouth to reply.

She leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth.

Salt of tears, and the taste of cinnamon and nutmeg from the day's special. Warmth, and softness, and then shock.

Ned flung himself backwards, horror in his eyes. "Oh, God--Chuck?" He stared at her, his eyes wide and his face paling almost to grey. "Oh, God, no, no!"

Chuck sat very still, her attention all on her body. She felt her heart beating fast, she was almost panting with excitement, but otherwise ... nothing. No black creeping in at the edge of vision. No sudden check in her breath, her pulse. No faintness, no aftertaste of the grave. Slowly, she smiled.

"Chuck?" Ned stared in bewilderment, his fingers going to his lips. "That was ... is there something on your mouth? Some kind of plastic?"

She shook her head. "No. Ned, I'm cured."

"Cured?"

"Of death." She leaned forward, suddenly hungry for his touch. "Cured of the Touch of Death."

He scuttled backwards on hands and feet. "No, stop! Chuck, don't!"

But she advanced on her knees, hand outstretched. "It's real, Ned. You don't have to be afraid to touch me. I feel...I feel good."

"How can this be?"

"I'll explain later. Just ... for now, I have to touch you. Please, Ned."

He looked from her face to her outstretched hand. "I can't," he whispered.

"I'm risking everything," she said. "You're risking nothing." She held out her hand. "Please."

"No..."

She leaned forward suddenly, her fingers brushing his shoe. Ned yelped and scampered backwards, finally fetching up against a wall. "Stop!"

She shuffled forward on her knees. "Ned!"

"I can't risk it," he whispered. "It can't be real. This can't be real. It's a trick."

"Ned," she said quietly. "Look at me. Trust me. I touched you. I kissed you. I feel fine."

His eyes met hers, frightened. And as she watched, hope seeped into his expression. "Really? Chuck, are you... are you sure?"

"I have to take the cure every day, but yes. I'm sure." She held her palm straight up. "Touch me, Ned."

Slowly, he reached forward. At the last moment, he hesitated, his palm an inch from hers, his whole arm trembling. "Chuck... I can't..."

"I know," she said, and touched his palm to hers.

His skin was warm, a little dry. She could feel calluses on his fingers. His face pale, he stared at their touching hands, then swallowed. "I don't believe it."

She spread her fingers, threaded them through his. His fingers responded slowly, and their hands made a knot. She could feel his pulse against hers. "Believe it."

"How..." He swallowed. His eyes looked into hers. "How?"

"Alfredo. Remember, the man with the herbal remedies? He made me a special formula. It's mixed with my tears. I have to take it every day."

He blinked. "Herbal...I don't understand. How can this work?"

She grinned. "You don't even know how your touch works. How can you explain it not-working?"

He looked at their entwined hands. "You're not dead."

"No. I'm very much alive." She leaned forward.

And he leaned forward, more slowly, but drawn to her like the opposite pole of a magnet. He hesitated again, just before they touched, and again it was Chuck who closed the gap. She kissed him softly, lingering on the warmth and softness of his mouth. She tasted him, ran her tongue over his lips, felt his hesitation and then his surrender. His mouth opened against hers, and suddenly all in a rush, he was bearing her backwards, his mouth strong on hers, his tongue dancing against hers. She fell sideways and he fell on top of her. For the first time, she felt his weight on her and it was wonderful.

She laughed against his kiss. His kiss laughed back.

Then his hands were everywhere. They stroked her face and touched her earlobes, threaded through her hair, slid down her shoulders. His mouth left hers, breathlessly.

"Chuck..." he breathed. Then his mouth found her jaw, and the soft spot under her ear (how had he guessed?) that made her moan, and his hands slid under and around her. He kissed his way back up her neck, across her cheek, into her hair. He crushed her against him, murmuring her name. "Chuck, Chuck, oh my God, Chuck."

She thrust her face into the angle between his jaw and his shoulder, against his strong neck, and inhaled. He smelled like pie and snow and soap, but mostly he smelled like Ned, a distinct human aroma, quite pleasant, that was his and no one else's. She felt the muscle move under her cheek as he lifted himself on one elbow above her.

She looked up into his shining eyes, and saw them change. Something had always smoldered at the back of them,

something hot and carnal and raw, but it had always been damped down by his fear. Now it burst into flame, and the angles and planes of his face changed from worry (his default expression) into something she'd never seen before. His caterpillar eyebrows rose, his eyes widened, and his face became very solemn. She looked back at him, feeling her breath come ever shorter, felt the pounding in her chest, and realized that this was their crossroads. This was their moment.

Very slowly, taking his time, he leaned down. His lips brushed hers in a butterfly caress, then pressed more firmly. She closed his eyes and then all was touch and feel and taste--his breath in her mouth, the rise and fall of his chest against hers, the hard press of him against her belly. His tongue explored hers, slowly, sensually, as befit a man who worked with taste and texture for a living. His hands slid down her arms, slid under her waist, lifted her against him. As easily as he lifted a pie from the oven, he rose and brought her with him, until they were kneeling upright, facing one another, lips locked. The soft pout of his lips was warm against hers; his kiss was luscious with desire, with gratitude, with delight. When he finally broke it, his lips lingered on his for a moment, mouthing some hidden word against her lips, breathing a secret. He rested his forehead against hers and sighed.

"I never thought this would happen. I don't know what to do."

She smiled, looking at his chin. "Yes, you do."

His lips (so red, so soft) curved upward in his quirky smile. "Well, yes, I do, but--" He broke off, leaning back to look at her with sudden concern. "You want to...?"

Chuck felt her face go hot again. "Well, yes, if you want to be crude about it."

He smiled his slow smile again. "I'll be anything but crude. It's just that I don't want to rush you or--"

Her kiss shut him up, and he did not resist it. Rather, he curled his long arms around her again, his fingers finding the zipper of her dress and sliding it down in one long, erotic, slow stroke. His lips were at her earlobe again, sending delicious shivers down her skin. She giggled, and was surprised to hear the erotic tone of it. She had not expected to laugh at this moment.

He smiled against her skin, and slid his big, warm hands inside the halves of her dress, one going up her spine to cup the back of her neck, the other sliding down, down. She pressed her face into his shoulder, her eyes closed, feeling his touch bring her senses alive. She had seen those hands do such delicate work, feeding people and planting flowers and turning the pages of a book. Now they explored her, the touch that should have brought death, the touch they had both feared and avoided now bringing a delicious warm tickle up from her center, a bubble of delight that giggled out of her.

"You're laughing at me," he laughed at her.

"No. I'm happy," she said.

He kissed her again, his mouth lingering as if he never wanted to let go. His hands at her back separated, tugging gently, and her dress fell down her shoulders. Cool air on her skin, but then his mouth was on her skin again, tracing the line of her neck down across her shoulder, warm lips finding collarbone and jaw, shoulder point and chin. And then he bent lower, his hands tugging again, and the dress slipped off her arms and puddled at her waist. His lips traced a path down the center of her chest, grazed the lace tops of her brassiere, and came to rest between her breasts. Ned slid his hands down her arms, up her waist, his thumbs brushing her nipples under their lace, and Chuck let out a moan as her knees suddenly gave way and she fell against Ned, boneless and hot and giddy.

He caught her up in his arms, grinning. "You like that," he whispered. It was not a question.

She swallowed and looked up into those dark, lambent eyes. His crooked smile held something new, something possessive and relentless. "You know I've never...I don't know how..." she stammered.

One of the caterpillars rose a bit. "Never?"

"Well, how was I supposed to?" She was hot and nervous and knew she was babbling, which Chuck knew she did when she was nervous, but she could not stop herself. "My aunts never left the house. All I had was their book collection. Which, I'll grant you, was both comprehensive and detailed, but as to actual what you'd call hands-on experience--"

He grinned. "It's not like I'm Casanova. Or maybe you've noticed the distinct lack of dating in my life--"

"I just..." She stopped, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. "This could be so awkward."

"I'll be gentle," he said, kissing her under her ear. "But I won't be quick." He ran his tongue down her neck, across her chest, to the top of her right breast. She gasped. She felt him smile against her skin. "Just tell me if you want me to stop..."

Like that would ever happen, she thought. So Chuck let go and let her head fall back as he licked a trail, slowly, outlining her brassiere. She hardly felt his fingers working at her back, but then her bra was falling and she felt more exposed than she ever had in her lift. She had no time to think about it, because he filled his hands with her breasts and moaned into them, his face pressed against her.

"Chuck," he whispered. "So beautiful..." Then his mouth found her nipple and the rush of feeling overwhelmed her. His tongue was exquisitely delicate, so light and intimate. Something deep inside her flashed to life.

She was not in charge of her hands any more. They tugged at Ned's T-shirt, drawing it over his head, and her fingers found his skin. His was warm, but not as silky as her skin, and the hair on his chest was just rough enough to tickle. She ran her fingers down his shoulders, so wide, down his arms, so long, until they met at her waist. He held still, letting her explore, dropping kisses into her hair.

She drew her hands down his chest, circling a nipple (which made him draw in his breath in a gasp that delighted her), to his waistband. And there she stopped, fascinated and afraid and unsure of herself.

His hands slid around her waist, then slid under the waistband of her panties, and slid down until his big hands were cupping her bottom under the silk. She felt herself go wet and hot, felt her face growing hotter, felt her nipples hardening.

"Ned..." she whispered.

"Yes, I know," he said, and his voice was steadier than she had ever heard. Here and now, for once in his life, Ned the Pie-Maker sounded sure of himself. "Do you want to move to the bed?" His husky voice was like a purr in her ear.

She shook her head, wordlessly, and he wrapped his arms around her, leaning sideways, laying them down side by side.

Across the room, Digby whined and thumped his tail, but stayed put, watching. Ned shoved aside a pile of books and they tumbled across the floor, unheeded. His hand found the comforter on the couch and pulled it down, then he was rolling the two of them onto it, looking down into her face and laughing. She laughed back and then gasped as his hands skimmed downward, drawing her dress past her ankles. She wondered what had happened to her brassiere, but then he was pulling down her panties, and she was naked on the floor under him, and his gaze roamed over her.

Chuck felt herself go hot from head to toe. She turned her head into his bare chest, but he reached up a hand and

turned her face away, planting a soft kiss on her mouth.

"So beautiful," he said. His chest muscles flexed as he stroked a hand down her, from shoulder over breast to her waist, then after a moment, across her belly (which fluttered) to the nest of curls below it. The sheer intimacy of his touch brought her breath up short, pulse pounding.

Then his hands left her, and he was wriggling out of his jeans, and then they were bare together with the air hot and shimmery between them. She dared to look, and found him looking at her looking, and his face got red and shiny with embarrassment. He looked away shyly when her gaze followed his lean torso downwards, down to where his erection strained flat against his belly, rising out of its nest, so alien and weird.

She turned her face into his chest, and then she was inhaling the familiar smell of Ned, feeling the hairs tickle her nose, and felt him roll over onto her, his weight and the hot smoothness of his skin and the lanky, muscular male strangeness of his body all pressing down on her. He propped himself on his elbows and kissed her mouth. She knew what came next, but could not move. She felt a trembling shudder go all through her. It was not fear, but anticipation, but he misread it and pulled back from the kiss.

"You want to stop?" His face, so familiar and so dear, bore its usual sad expression, as if he knew from the beginning that this would never end well.

"No," she whispered. "But you have to take the lead..."

Leaning on one elbow, he slid the other hand down, a long caress that trailed heat in its wake, to the top of her thighs, and between, gently opening her. And then he rolled onto her, and he looked into her eyes as he pushed, and she felt the first alien stretch and invasion and suddenly it was all all right, it was Ned and it was okay, even though it felt odd. She felt a long, slow throb of warmth go up her body, and he moved, went deeper, and he sighed and closed his eyes and said her name.

He slid home, she wound her arms around him (so large, so bony, so male) and he moaned into her hair.

"Ned," she breathed, and he inhaled deeply and thrust again, and then his rhythm caught her up, and she rocked with him on the floor, twined together, locked to one another flesh to flesh as she had never, ever, ever imagined. Well, yes, she'd imagined it, but not like this. Not this crashing, raw energy spiraling up into her whole body, not this awkward yet graceful tangle of elbows and knees. He shifted, and she gasped as his angle changed, and oh goodness it was different.

Very different. She slid her hands down his spine, deeply indented with muscle on either side, to his ass which rocked and thrust and pushed. She lifted her knees, and he slid deeper with an "oh!" that went straight to her, and then he _growled_ into her hair and she lost her mind.

She clawed at him, feeling the long span of muscle over rib and torso, feeling his presence inside her, around her. She shifted, matching his rhythm, her breath panting out the same beat, the same cadence. She wanted all of him inside her, his body and his smile and his sad melancholy loneliness that opened only to her, his pain and his sorrow and his broken childhood, his courage and his smile. Hunger drove her--hunger for more more more of him, his skin and hair and eyes and touch and mouth and smile and everything that made him Ned.

Ned, Ned, Ned. His smile flashed through her memory as his mouth breathed her name into her ear again, and he tensed, and she tensed at the unfamiliar feelings coiling in her, and then he gasped and tightened all over. And something hung there, just at the brink, something deep in her bones and tissues and DNA, that recognized this moment and waited, waited...

He slumped a little, hard inside her, so hard, and he moved, so slow, so slow...

And there, just at the peak, she caught fire and arched against him, surprised at the force of her release and helpless in its wake. "Ned!"

He held her tight against him and moved, thrashing, the two of them locked in one long shudder, his body touching hers just right.

And then it was over. She lay stunned for a moment. Out of all her fear and nervousness and passion, she laughed. She laughed deep and long, joyously and without restraint. She laughed until she wept, and felt Ned's kiss on her cheek. When she finally subsided, she found him staring down at her, half amused, half concerned.

"I'm not sure what to make of that," he said. "Laughter?"

She locked her hands behind his head, felt him shrink and leave her, felt his body still warm against her. "Tears of laughter," she said. "The only defense against the touch of death."

His crooked smile warmed his pale face. "I love you, Chuck. Have I ever mentioned that?"

"It was implied," she said mischievously. Then more softly, "Thank you."

His hand reached out for the edge of the comforter and drew it over them, cocooning them together in a hot, wet

envelope smelling of pies and sex and sweat and old potato chips. She snuggled against his chest. "I never thought we would have this."

"Me, neither. Now I will want it every day," he whispered. "Wet, sloppy, happy sex, in every corner of this apartment. I hope that cure never wears off. When I thought I would never be able to touch you, I thought I could live with it. But if we had to go back--I couldn't."

She curled a finger in his hair, drew it down his cheek. She didn't want to ever be farther than arm's length from him again. "I have to take that cure every day," she said. "It's made from my tears."

He kissed her eyes, one and then the other. "Then I have to see if I can make you laugh every day for the rest of our lives," he said. "Enough laughter to make you cry, and then laugh again."

She drew his mouth, that generous and sweet mouth, to hers for another kiss.

At that moment, in the town of Couer de Couer, events occurred that are not, were not, and should never be considered an ending, for endings, as it is known, are where we begin.


End file.
